


Life Force

by Requiem (Hanahaki_Blood)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Batman: Arkham Knight, Post-Canon, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26961157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanahaki_Blood/pseuds/Requiem
Summary: Hee-Hee. Hee-Hee. Good luck then.His soubriquet comes to mind. I think of how it’s become the epitome of corruption during the years. How people would cower before his pot belly in fright, kiss the very floor his flat feet had been waddling over. A smile creeps up my mouth, as strange to my face as tears on the Joker’s pale-painted cheek.No penguin laughs like that. No Joker would have to forbid himself to cry. Only men do this. Only monsters really care when Scarecrow loses his face.Bruce Wayne is dead it wails in the streets. But we, the monsters, are the ones with the guts left to call him by his true name between the bars.Batman is dead. Batman is dead.(Our curse. Our nemesis. Our oeuvre.)Long live the Batman.
Relationships: Harvey Dent/Edward Nygma, Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma
Kudos: 18





	1. Life Force

The air tastes bitter since it’s all over the news.

Batman is Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne is dead. Is Batman dead too? For logic’s sake, yes. But who has much left for logic nowadays? Except me, of course. It has always been about logic, all my life. And it has been a horrible pain in my ass for it.

All of this has become humbug now. It eats the time. I, for my part, have run out of time. I need to use what’s left for other purposes now. All those seconds that are bound by other thoughts and swirl inside me, fears I never had a name for, have dug themselves into my bones and keep them cold at night.

To be more precise here, I experience what it feels like to hold up a Scarecrow when its backbone is broken. And it is by no means an experience I’d have liked to make.

Evil tongues say he is faceless without his mask. But a face he has and it’s horrible to behold. Can you imagine that? I can’t say _I_ imagined it to be worse, can’t say I imagined it at all. He never took the burlap off when we met, and we met more often than other rogues did. There were darkness and touch but none of them prepared me for… the truth. It was not that I did not know the truth. I am the Riddler, I _know_ things. But truth and reality are different pairs of shoes, see? We walked barefoot in the bedroom for a reason.

“Aren’t you scared he’ll wrap his hands around your neck one day and end it?“, Oswald asks. I’m too occupied by keeping Jonathan upright so that none of the wardens have a reason to grab and shove him against the wall like they’re used to. He hates being touched by unknown hands, he’s flinching and shaking from the mere illusion of crowded areas. I wonder; do they remind him of his once well-led classrooms? Does he miss them, the students even?

Oswald’s question rebounds on me like a whiplash. Every question does. Scared? Ha, the irony! There is another word weighing on my tongue but it feels cold. Like fish. Dead eyes with no pupils reflect my grime-stained face. I swallow the word down.

“No,“ I say. “Why should he?“

“His sick mind could think you’re the bloody bat,“ the fat man says. I force a smile. It’s the smile a mother offers to her bawling child when she’s tired. Tired of… everything, I suppose. I’ve never been a mother to know. I never had children. God knows if I’d have ever wanted one.

“Jon thinks me to be many things these days, Oswald – but his enemy isn’t one of them.“

“How do you bloody know?“ Another glance, eyes dark as coal. His little, greedy mind reflects in them. I shrug.

“He’d have done it already if I were“, I say. “I appreciate your concern, old friend. I don’t need it though.“ I get up and pull Jon with me, ignore his stagger and rhythmic mumble, ignore Oswald’s hollow laugh stapled on my back. 

_Hee-Hee_. _Hee-Hee_. _Good luck then._

His soubriquet comes to mind. I think of how it’s become the epitome of corruption during the years. How people would cower before his pot belly in fright, kiss the very floor his flat feet had been waddling over. A smile creeps up my mouth, as strange to my face as tears on the Joker’s pale-painted cheek. 

No penguin laughs like that. No Joker would have to forbid himself to cry. Only men do this. Only monsters really care when Scarecrow loses his face.

 _Bruce Wayne is dead_ it wails in the streets. But we, the monsters, are the ones with the guts left to call him by his true name between the bars.

 _Batman is dead_. _Batman is dead._

_(Our curse. Our nemesis. Our oeuvre.)_

Long live the Batman.

* * *

Two weeks go by. August lays to rest, September arrives. Two weeks in September and you cry _take them away from me_. _Take them away or so help me –_

I do, Jon. I do. Look.

The right corner. No bats, see? I stomped them down. They're under my shoes, their snouts and wings and teeth. The blood I’ll use as ink. I’ll write verses for you, no, lullabies. You’ve always been fond of Poe, haven’t you? He’ll sing you songs in the dark. The Raven. Nevermore. Nevermore. That’s where we are now. The end of the story. You’d like that, the poetry-loving Socrates you are.

The left corner? No, darling, no claws to grab you. A shadow, a charade, not more, believe me. Believe in me like you used to, like no one did before. I'm here. _Hush, little baby_. I’m here.

(What’s been Elliot up to these days anyway?)

The ceiling looks grey and cracked. Cheap light bulbs hang there blinking, sting our sight. Bow your head, Jon, it only burns your eyes. Close them in my lap, I'm warmer than the sheets anyway. I can sleep with my back against the wall, it’s no trouble. I'll sleep when you sleep, maybe we'll conjoin in your dreams. You can tell me what I said when you wake up one day. You can tell me all you remember, and I’ll tell you all that the gas made you forget.

One month walks in, hunched shoulders and dirty nails. October, the nasty hulk. I wrap blankets around you in October, wrap clothes around you, wrap myself around you but you’re cold, you’re always so _cold_ , love. 

You know what the cold lures in, don’t you, Freeze? They’ve put you in your special cell, the icecube-prison as I like to call it. We don’t even know if you’re still alive.

Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I see death bowing over our emaciated heads, puzzling over who to take home first. Three times, I lay quiet. One time, I talked to him.

I said: “Hello, reaper.“ (I’ve always been a master with words, see.)

Hallucination or not, he said: “Hello, Eddie.“ 

And oh, the soothing voice he had. He sounded like my father in a way; right before he got drunk and loosened the belt.

I said: “Not today.“ To him and Dad. And held Jonathan tighter to my chest. “Not now.“

He looked at me, face hidden in the thick shadow of his hood, but he had a mouth and he had eyes, and they were terrible in nature as water is wet. They both burned on my skin while he made his promise.

“Soon.“

Two months pass then. November crawls out of its grave and pulls a load of heads with it. 

I lead the fork to your pinched mouth. You almost bite my finger off and I have come to a point where I’d have let you, no worries. But the guards come; the guards take you away. 

Minutes later I’m the one who starts screaming and the rogues hear my echo banging down the hall. They say nothing; they listen and wait. Brooding.

A coin that flips, lands on flesh. I get no answers for the sore calls I rip off my throat, yet even in my dusk I recognize mercy when it’s given. The silence holds agreements only the creatures that have grown from it can understand.

December then: Lunch time. In the cafeteria we sit. Stomaches empty and bitter mouths to nuckle on.

Where did they take him?

_I don't care._

**But he does.**

_Shut it, Two-Face._

I've heard them prattle something about solitary confinement.

Ew, I hate that chamber. It’s cramped in there! All dark.

They can't do that. He’ll get a heartattack. He's afraid of the dark.

 _Aren't we all, Eddie?_ Aren't we all?

I focus on my plate and know I won't gulp down a single bite today. Hunger has no use in this facility. Comfort is a fairytale sung by morphine. 

I turn my head and ask Jervis: “How is the blue caterpillar doing today?“ and he shrugs, the tiny man. He shrugs with his tiny shoulders and tiny chin and his gnawed fingers grown haggard while they choke the cracked cup between them. He hid it under his shirt when they came, laid on his stomach feigning sleep. He’s got bleeding scratches where the rim cut his skin. Thanks to Harley they didn’t become infected, but there’s no way in hell he’d have regretted it if they did. They took all the others already and what’s a tea party without tea cups? His poetic chatter has moved far beyond these walls, broken in fractures down sanity, gone astray in forgotten search for his beloved Alice. At least his Alice was not mauled by Croc like mine.

Sometimes, I envy him that.

Sometimes, when I’m capable of it, this envy ashames me.

* * *

Ninth session with Leland since I’m here. Wonder when she’ll give it up this time. Aks me questions, three at least.

Leland: “How are you?“

Me: “What do you think?“

Leland, cleaning her glasses with the hem of her shirt: “What I think isn’t important. I’m here to hear your side of the story.“

Me, leering through the cracks of my own lenses: “What story? I’ve got many.“

Leland, pausing: “The story of you and Batman, Eddie. The start of your obsession.“

Me, not pausing: “So what you’re actually asking me is when I’ve lost my marbles.“

Leland stays quiet at that. She’s a terrible liar. Sometimes, she has better days.

I think this is one of these things the doctors fail to see when they look at us, ready to probe and push our brains like billiard balls. When they try to bribe the sickness cowering inside our shells, in dire want to pull it out of our frontal lobe like some miraculous gold seam. They want to cage it swirling in broad daylight so that everyone can clap. Yes. Clap Clap CLAP for the mad. What a wonderful show, everyone’s invited. Don't lose your head though, won't get it back for free.

The price is high, my friend. The price. Is you.

It's their fault. Their flaw. Their search for glory that dooms us. It’s the reason they don't understand and never will. They only touch the side of a coin that's been scratched already, too filthy to ever be cleansed in earnest. Talking about us as monstrous beings, murderers, _lunatics_ is easy work. We're all of that, we’re well aware, thank you very much. We have no need to deny any blood our shoes left imprints in. Still, they dare to bore us by telling the same old stories, again and again.

There's more to us. They fear this ’more’, Jonathan told me once. He's still the only psychiatrist I deem worth his salt in this city...well. He _was_ worth it.

In the end, we’re all one and the same, I guess. Outside the Asylum we try to kill each other if possible. Inside, we only try to kill _them_. The blue and white teams with their overalls and know-it-all glasses and paychecks and guns that belong in our hands, not theirs.

When they bring you back, I wonder if death has paid you a visit on his own in the darkness; you look like you’ve seen a thousand ghosts. Maybe you’ve recognized some of them since you’re barely able to stand. 

I mutely reach out my arms to you, and you stumble into them like a lost child. You’re light as a feather, breakable as my trust. There is no sound you could make I haven’t heard already, and yet the impossibly soft sigh that’s pressed through your lungs when your chin rests in the crook of my neck tears me apart anew. I didn’t know there was still something left whole enough to tear, but here we are.

 _Jon, can you hear me?_ I whisper.

No reaction. No answer but shallow breath and cracked nails that bite into my shoulder blades. Of course not. It’s not possible.

Slowly, sadly, I lay my palms flat against your sides. You neither complain nor flinch. It’s progress, more than I could have hoped for, I know. The disappointment nags at me still. Will you speak to me again? Will I ever hear my name in that low, dry tone of yours, underlaid with equal parts of coldness and affection?

We have so many lies to live up to. So many promises to fail. How can I fail them without you talking back at me, holding my wrist when I’m about to punch you? When you don’t burn me with your stare while I joke about burning you instead? Your costumes were quite inflammable from what I remember.

And while you fight the twisted shadows of your mind and cling to me like you have never clung to anything, you’ll never know how much you’ve hurt me when you went out the door. Left the life we had built up beforehand. Left me, even though I told you: “Don’t go to Arkham. Don’t join Joker’s crusade. I have a bad feeling about this.“

But you were so eager back then, weren’t you? Utterly immersed in the hope of infecting Batman with your toxin, bring out his greatest nightmares, have him cower and quiver in fear before you. You should have listened to me, love. Sometimes I envy it that you’ll never be able to admit you were in the wrong, because you won’t know what for, you just _won’t know_. I can't even get mad at you because it doesn’t matter now, will it? How cruel is that?

We remain like this for a while, unmoving. I feel your erratic heartbeat lose some of its pace to sync with mine. Good. Your heart has always caused me worry. Remember this at least.

Maybe it’s better this way. I'll take it. I took everything that was thrown upon me since childhood and still I live, I think, I cry. How more human can I be? How many tears am I to shed till the salt has eaten through my bones?

If we stay here any longer, I might find out sooner than I can bear to endure.

* * *

Winter’s afternoon. Finally, some would say. Batman died, now the rest follows his example. A harsh wind strokes the back of my neck as I look through walls of barbed wire. A thirty-minute walk upon the aculeate stage and they dare to call it mercy. Fools. Philistines. Bastards.

“Cigarette?“

I shed a quick sideglance to the grit offered. He holds it between his two good fingers; his nails have suffered, but are cleansed nonetheless. The gesture is unusual yet a kind one. He never does give cigarettes out for free.

“I had cancer already, Harvey, but thank you.“

“Huh.“ Harvey stuffs it back into the breast pocket of his ’suit’. Stripes were never his forte. His stature was Armani built. Arkham wear makes him look like a flat-pressed zebra with too broad shoulders. “This place gives you worse things than cancer,“ he mumbles. I bite back a laugh.

“Oh, really? I wouldn’t know.“ He lifts his gaze at that. For a moment, it seems, he has to fight back a smile too. Then it falls back into oblivion, eyes dipped in gloom.

“The wardens won't take precautions anymore. We saw them treat Zsasz like a dog the other day.“ 

I breathe in deep. The air is lead now, wrapping my throat like a tight-bound ribbon. The first tendrils of frost cling to the corners of my mouth.

“Haven't they always?“

“Usually, they treated him like a _mad_ dog. Feared his bite before getting rough. They don't anymore. His new scars are not of own making – he killed too many friends. Rabies moved on to other carriers.“ He lits his cigarette and holds it in his burnt hand, tip glowing like a demon's eye in the faint dark of day. His eyes follow the spot mine roamed on minutes ago.

“Joker's dead. Batman's dead. Dammit, even Ivy's gone.“ His voice grows more gruesome soon as he speaks her name. I’m sorry for him. Ivy and I were never friends, but I know they used to date every once in a while. He threatened to kill her a hundred times, but always refrained from blowing up buildings with greenhouses in reach from what I know. I watch the smoke curl upward, reaching for the sky; the freedom we're denied. How pretty it looks.

“We're on stranded ground,“ Harvey continues gravely. “Joker was our appendix, but Batman was our lung. And without Bruce visiting twice a month to check upon the regularities, people will do what they feel up to here. There are no consequences left. No moral barriers either.“ He takes a deep drag, another whiff of smoke rolling from the undamaged side of his mouth. “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.“ 

The line wakes my own smile from slumber. Who would've thought Harvey is the one to let it grace this worn-out face of mine? Strange times are these when the bat's not around to spite us.

“Since when do you quote Shakespeare, Harv?“

“Since when isn’t every second word you speak part of a riddle?“

Fair point. I wonder about this myself, actually. Since Batman left, many habits seem to have grown out of use. We stand and watch the colors fade from the sky.

“Didn't know you and Crane were that close,“ he says eventually. I swallow his tone. There is no hate, no disgust. A kind of anonimity, maybe, a layer of pity beneath. It's like pushing bricks down the throat.

“Well,“ I say, as the sun settles down to earth, peppering the sea with her ever-burning glow, enclothing the rim of our prison island. The pool of red that mingles with blue creates a bruising shade. “Now you do.“

* * *

“How are you, Eddie?“

Her voice is sweet in the dark. I clutch the phone tighter, the smell of plastic eating into my fingertips.

“How am I? Rather how _can_ I be?“ I ask. She doesn’t seem to mind my sarcasm. With a small sigh, Selina takes a seat, slipping out of the shadows she’s so comfortable to curl in. Her eyes are green and fresh in the lampshade. It aches to look at them. I’ve been kept from brightness far too long.

“You look terrible.“

“Ever the flatterer, I see. Still mad at me for the collar?“

“It looked cheap.“ She purses her mellow lips, cord twined around a finger. My mouth twists upwards in return, mirroring her.

“You mentioned that, yes. My apologies by the way, I was in kind of a hurry. Forgot to put glitter on it, polish some diamonds – I had lost my manners back then. I saw no sense in keeping them anymore.“

“Not even for me? I should be offended.“

“Aren't you always?“ She scoffs, giving her nails a clinical observation.

“I should have suspected as such, actually. Your fashion sense suffered like hell way before that.“

“Just as you never changed your horrendous taste in men.“

“We all made bad choices in the end.“ 

“Is it good that it has ended then?“ Nail color’s black. Her favourite is leaf-green, actually. My head tilts. “You miss him."

"I didn't come here to talk about Batman, Eddie," she counters sharply. A little pause then. A little consideration. Quieter this time: “Don't you dare say you don't miss him too.“

A smile settles in the corner of my mouth. She might be the only one beside Jonathan to truly know what this human bat has been for me. What he meant, those sumptuous sacrificies I made to watch him mewl and cough under my pressure. He did none of that in the end. I did. It’s tiresome to think of it in the aftermath. How it all lead to nothing only to realize that this nothing… was me.

“I probably would if I didn't miss Jon already. There's only so much space in my heart these days.“ Considering how empty and shallow it had been all those years before, this space is so small it nearly chokes on itself. 

This is the moment her eyes grow sour.

“Is he still...“ she trails off on purpose, the weight too heavy on her feline tongue. I huff.

“A zombie? Yes.“ I look at the bracelet tugging at her slender wrist. Jewelry at a place like this. She has always been a bold girl. I loved that once. The longer I look at her, the more I know; I still do. “But I think he's learned to recognize my voice. He doesn't flinch as quickly when I touch him. That's something, right?“

“You need to stop this. It will kill you.“

I cock my head, chin resting on the back of my hand. I'm curious what she'd say if I told her Harvey shared her opinion. It's comical actually, this whole conversation. Had I more strength left in me, I'd probably feign loathing for her foolish attempt to contact me at all. Her sudden, misplaced care is a warning sign for those who know her well enough. Batman's death must have hit harder than I've suspected. Still, I don’t tolerate all the liberty she takes.

“ _It_?“ I echo. “The last time we met, you referred to Dr. Crane as he.“ She bites her lower lip. Anxious? Selina Kyle? I bow forward till my breath fogs the glass. Who is this woman? What has she done to _The Cat_?

“You know what I mean,“ she says.

“I do.“ I wave it off. “Don't worry about us, Selina. We'll be fine.“

Her sigh is like easing thunder from afar. “You've always been a terrible liar.“ The dirtied silhouette of her hands intertwines, as if she'd hold herself. She probably has to now that no one else will and mine are cuffed most of the time; now that she has to walk the streets alone. I lean forward as much as I’m allowed to.

“Selina?“ Her grip tightens at my tone. 

“Bruce is gone. Ivy is gone. It's like all the people I've come to know die in front of me and I can't do anything about it. We had our differences, yes,“ She sheds a glance that almost borders on a threat. “and I’ll get you for it, don’t you worry – but…I don't want to lose you, too. You understand that, right, Eddie?“

Her words knit seams in my head while we talk. They spread through windows and dangle off unbalanced roofs in the cabinet I used to call my mind. She has a habit of pulling me in, so to speak. Something about her demeanor seems off though. Cats are independent creatures, they say. One day your most loyal companion, tomorrow they’ll slice and dice your face. They’re not to be trusted with, but so are people, aren’t they? Now mix these two folks together. What do you get? A troublesome beauty.

 **“** That's the riddle you never dared to solve, Selina.“ I put a finger to my lips, chains clinking. “You can't lose what’s been lost from the start. All you can do is find it – and throw it back into the dirt where it belongs.“

“Smartass. Can’t you be serious for once?“ Her grip breaks to search for mine. The glass is in the way, naturally. Her long fingernails draped across my skin would have meant no warmth to me, or so I tell myself. There's much more than glass that separates us here. I offer a lopsided grin.

“And relieve you of any representation of my cunning intellect? I don’t think so.“

No make-up in the world is able to hide the heavy bags under her eyes. But even sleep-deprivation looks good on her. There was a time I thought only death could make her ugly, but I was wrong. If Batman could not destroy her, death won't stand a chance either, hood or not. I’m proud of her for that.

When all else fails, she will survive us. She might even leave Gotham for good now that neither bats nor birds nor friends keep her. All she’s left to do is get rid of me too and she’s free, like my girls are. 

Nina. Deidre. It’s been two years, three months and five days they left, but they’re still sending me postcards on St. Patrick’s Day, packages on my birthday. It’s a comforting thought they didn’t come into contact with any part of the disaster we’re facing now. To them, Batman was just a weird guy in a furry suit. To Selina, however,…

“The curse he left you with is nothing I approve of“, I say despite myself. She considers that, brows gently furrowed.

“Neither do I“, she whispers at last.

Her expression fractures. She breaks down crying. Our hands stay draped against each other with the damned glass in between till time's up and the guards come to drag her back into the shadows. There’s an urge to call her name buried inside my conscious. I break the earth and dig it out.

“Selina.“

She turns her head ever so gracefully. Her eyes meet mine, the twinkle in them gone. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to say. 

And she smiles. Smiles at my incapacity. She knows.

“See ya, Eddie.“ Her voice is an uncried tear running down my earlobe. I clench my fists, my pulse quickening underneath my chin. I want to hit the pane till it cracks. Leave her a message, anything. A riddle no one but her understands, the proper goodbye she deserves. I want to punch the guard who holds her wrist in his grip, leaving his dirty imprints on her thin, easily-bruising skin.

I want to stand up. I sit still as stone.

The bracelet croaks a faint clatter with her every move as she turns around and leaves the chamber.

Soon as the door falls shut we both know that meeting again will be a most unlikely thing. I put my head between my arms and close my eyes, nothing but silence to dull the sound of my sobs.

* * *

“What should I do, Jon?“ I breathe the words between bars and taste dust in the empty air.

Our cell is barren and cold. Outside, snow is falling, a white sheen that buries the abominations and traces of old blood till next year. Christmas is coming, can you believe that? For some, at least.

I watch the snowflakes dance to earth, graceful in their fall. The way our story goes, this might very well be the last time I get to see them. 

I swallow down the lump that clogs my windpipe.

“I’m scared of dying here.“ It‘s strange, putting it in words like that, but this doesn‘t diminish their truth. “I always knew it would come to an end, yet picturing my departure as a rat choking on its breath in my old, rotten cell? They won’t let me go easy, either. Some of the latest deaths are to my credit.“ My thoughts drift away, scenes of blood and knives blurring my sight. “They might have their way with me first, a revenge only their kind can think of.“ I close my aching eyes, usher the images back into their cave. Even so much as the possibility hurts beyond comprehension. 

Jon’s slurred whimper ebbs away in my lap. I absently card my fingers through the thin remnants of his hair. Another bad dream. They’ve grown worse during last week. 

I press my back against the cold brick-wall. My skin sucks up its chill like a sponge.

“I’m not sure you’ll make it. No matter what I choose, it gives me goosebumps all over. Delight in that if you still can.“

If he does, I‘ll never know. If he doesn‘t, nothing‘s changed. Keeping Jon on his toes alone has become more and more of a chore. I wouldn‘t say it aloud, but it tires me, too. The bleak routine of it all eats me to the bone.

Neither he nor I will last in this facility. We age by the minute, clamped in the chokehold of unbecoming souls. Power with neither control nor limit is merciless. No dictator has ever proved the opposite. 

“It could be our only chance to be free. Get out of Gotham, take a plane to any state, any country we want to. I’ve got some change left, y’know? Hidden, anyways. I’ve never been to France.“ I lower my lids. “Harvey… he’s somewhat clear in the head since Batman’s death. He might help us, if only for my sake.“ A grin spreads across my face, weak, but resistent. “He still has a soft spot for me, can you believe it? After all I’ve done.“ 

Jonathan stirs in his sleep. Jealousy in his daze? I wouldn’t dare to hope. I card my fingers through his sparse hair, carefully picking sweat-damp strands from his forehead and smoothing them back. 

“Probably there’s no use for holding grudges anymore“, I murmur into the void. “We’re all in the gutter. And now that Bats is gone, it’s up to us to pull ourselves out of the dirt.“

It might be mere imagination that I feel Jon‘s grip tighten around me at that. But then again, what little more than imagination is left to us? I close my eyes and breathe in deep. The air steams in cloudlets from my chapped lips. I wet them and taste blood clinging to my tongue.

It‘s decided, then. We‘re going to die one way or another; what else do we have to lose?

At least let us _pretend_ to fight the inevitable before we sink into the grave. The snow will cover us all the same.

* * *

The breakout is far less heroic than deluded _Gotham Gazette_ would have made it out to be. Vale, retired early and proud, might have spit her successful venom one last time given the chance.

Concerning me, it fit us just right.

Croc. Good old Croc. Dearest monster in our ranks, hulk of scales, walking tank. Beast to thousands, true to the word. And ever incredibly, deliciously **hungry**.

Of all people it was Harley to suggest we should release him, terribly aware of how the mutation had gotten to the sad stage of knowing neither friend nor foe. He had turned into a complete animal, rash and unsatisfied, a force of nature crammed into a tiny, outdated cage whose iron bars would have cut his flesh without the rock-hard skin protecting and damning it. Time wasn’t a concept he’d indulge in anymore; he always looked out for his next meal whether he had eaten before dusk or ten minutes ago.

I was wary at first, but Croc had been human once, fueled by rage. This rage had merely increased during his imprisonment and the guards’ bashful treatment. He could be used as a weapon to our advantage. However, there was no guarantee he would prefer tearing apart the guards to the inmates. Still, he‘d been one of _us_. And in some way, he still is. Harvey is adamant about leaving no one behind since no one else will come for them. For once, Two-face doesn‘t seem to disagree. Although Jonathan shivers by my side, I resign myself to the cheering crowd.

We attack them at night, as the norm dictates. Batman has shown us what it’s like to be afraid of the dark long ago. This time, we return the favor tenfold.

First, the lure. Some of Oswald‘s goons have us covered, obedient or bribable enough to break the lock and risk a devouring fate. The minute Croc's free a rampage ensues, centering the attention of most guards in the lower sector. They bring their electrically charged batons. Idiot vermin. There’s chaos, screaming, sharp big teeth. Those who are accustomed to order cannot operate in it. We do.

They are so busy keeping the crocodile in check they don't recognize the other monster in the shadows before the doors fall shut. And when they do, same doors are frozen to the hilt from the outside. Mr. Freeze has survived after all.

Suggesting Zsasz to be part of the slaughter was a courtesy of mine. Since the day Harvey had called him a dog it deemed logical to have him fight and murder along the only creature more in need to kill than he is. Besides, I’m not one to stand in the way of wielding vengeance upon those who‘ve wronged you. 

They hurt us all. They had it coming.

There is no other entrance for the guards to pick, no matter how many bullets they waste and how many times their fists shatter on metal. We watch the massacre unfold in full tattering volume on the screens of the surveillance room. All that’s missing are some drinks and the curtain that veils the screen after the show‘s done.

The doctors are next. We let Jervis go first while Oswald, clamoring, stirs up the strongest inmates against the arriving military. They have no chance – a soup ladle from the kitchen assortment and fists do nothing against a machine gun. But they don't have to; they serve as cannon fodder until we’ve brought the true solution for our problems to light.

This solution waits deep underground so we have to get the lifts under control first. This is easier said than done since the lifts closest to our destination reside in the west wing of Arkham. As karma has it, we currently reside at the opposite end of the main building.

As if the military were aware of our situation it breaks through the entrance shouting orders, stamping, padded to the pore. Wave-like, men in armor and shield make their way through the corridors. One half of Harvey's face grins; the other has never stopped to grind its teeth.

“Well it wouldn't be any fun otherwise,“ he says and checks the number of bullets in his revolver before the drum snaps back into place.

Idiot. I missed that grin. (Please, don't tell Jon.)

We have to be quick in our actions, invisible in shape, nimble in movement. Which means I can't take Jon with me even though it's his former safe house we're going for. All I hope is that he's actually hoarding some canisters of his gas there, and its effect still holds strong enough to get us out.

Choosing in whose care I give him in the meantime proves more difficult to me than the decision to get majorly involved in Arkham's mass outbreak. With leaden heart I’m about to entrust him to Harley when Jervis shows up. He rather falls than walks through the door, one half of his jacket fluttering crookedly over his shoulder, his eyes two plate-sized slices of bright light. He has color on his face again; not all of it is blood.

"I've seen my Alice,“ he chants, happy as the Jubjub bird flapping its disastrous wings. He accidentally bumps into Harley who throws a hefty curse into his direction. Joker didn't take her temper into the grave. “My Alice, out there. I must find her!" His hands tremble with happiness, his mouth with fearful anticipation. I gently push Jon into his field of vision.

"Take care of Jonathan first," I say, my voice as calm as I can manage under these circumstances. "Then I'll help you find your Alice.“

Jervis halts in movement, gaze fixed on the crumpling existence of his once well-beloved, irresponsive friend. The delusion drips out of his eyes.

"Oh," he says as if woken from a dream. Half of his life he's been thriving in the Charybdis of Wonderland, he could as well have turned, headed to his cell and gone back to sleep. But now the known, dull sadness creeps back in, the kind that offers no tears for consolation. 

"Sure, Eddie,“ he says in a low voice, all cheer abandoned. “We'll drink tea till you're back, won't we, doctor? We’ll be good.“

Jonathan says nothing as usual, but his fingers hack into my sleeve like the claws of the crow he used to pet. With slow care I pull them off the fabric and guide them into Jervis' waiting hands.

He flinches back. My heart sinks. I thought he’d recognize him. They’d been so close. Has the gas left nothing but ache and repulse?

I take a step forward and lean in, turn the sharp edge of his chin in my direction. Our foreheads touch, his skin radiating lukewarm **.** He stays still, trusting; I don’t know how to feel about it anymore. I just accept it as the fact that it is.

"I'll come back,“ I whisper, ghosting breath over his faded lips. “You won’t get rid of me that easily. How often do I need to prove this to you, hm?“

No answer. His eyes are blind and overcast by an expression – if one may call it that – I can’t decipher, yet his gaze is locked on me. No matter how unattached and disoriented he may seem to the world, he sees _me_. He always sees _me_ by his own definition of _seeing_. 

Above all, he sees me leaving. At least I believe it so.

* * *

We duck down the corridor, our backs to the wall, nerves and muscles pulled taunt like wire ropes. Harvey's snort sounds unchanged behind me, a metronome of calculation that leaves a disgusting contrast to the atmosphere we dive in, subsequently shaken by the aftershock of a grenade that has found its rather superfluous detonation one floor down. I know, Jon, I should have rid myself of the sense for suprise eons ago; the small men fancy their guns like sparks do a pool of gasoline – and without Batman taking off the load, stomping in and putting up limits, they must feel no less than children in the gloom; leaderless, left alone, aware of their role, but not capable of carrying it out adequately. Shove a match into their hands to light a candle; no matter how time and circumstance may turn, they always catch a stick of dynamite with a fuse too short and call it coincidence. My gaze jitters over my shoulder, back to the dark corner we’ve come from. The soldiers get closer. It would be better to retreat in answer, inform the others and work out a new plan that does not serve their heads and tongue on a silver platter. To be by Jon's side as they kick the door in and open fire. If there is no more gas in his safe house, we’ll all be fucked anyway. 

A hot gush of panic guarded by a sheen of eruptively sharp sweat chases down my spine. No. It has to be there. It has to. Jon is the most meticulous person I’ve ever met. Beside me, that is.

Harvey's hand anchors on my shoulder to pull me out my swamp’s fear with one staunch move.

"Listen, Ed, I understand this is tough on you, but we don't got all day."

His voice is damnfully quiet, no doubt inside, almost mocking at the possibility. Though at this moment everything must seem like mockery to me. This loose plan, our situation, Batman’s death, Bruce Wayne’s true identity and Joker’s laughter gone amiss. Of course, Harvey’s right. And just as sure, I hate him more than anyone I ever hated, being righter than me. I shake off his ruined paw – not because I abhor its touch, but, as I have yet to understand in my anger, it’s still as familiar to me as if nothing had happened. Like we'd be the same people we’ve masqueraded as ten years ago.

I thought I had left this behind me. His touch and him and my old self. Apparently, this was just another lie to bear. There never was an old self. There is just me.

I step back, piling breath on breath. Get a grip, Nygma, or you’ll never grip anything else but the tiles soaked in your blood. One last nod to Harvey (and to myself, who knows), I turn my back and go ahead. The revolver drum snaps into place and the echo follows hard on me. Harvey is a quick shot, always been; but on days like these it would be foolish to rely on the skill of others alone, even when it’s his. Our footsteps now echo hollowly from the walls rounding another corner, blasphemous in the ensued death silence of the corridors. The warmth of his palm still burns on my shoulder. Flesh and its fingerprint memory. Unlike snakes, we can’t afford to shed our skin each time we grow out of our past shell. We must continue wearing the cover of years we despise the knowledge of because they shaped us into the person able to walk away from them – if only in the physical sense.

I don’t believe in God yet I’m not averse to think something more powerful than luck is holding a clawed hand over our heads as we take more undisturbed steps till at some point of our journey the elevators appear before us in shape and color. Grey giants in strong contrast to the linoleum green columns which leave them in their posture. If they could talk, I wonder, would they approve of our undertaking?

„Ed -“

“Don’t.“ I peek around the corner, then wave him ahead. „We already said too much on this matter.“

“I didn’t say anything,“ he says, a little taken aback, gun over his heart. I don’t turn to watch one half of his face crumble with doubt while the other remains motionless as it should. The space we’re in is narrow. How I wish for fresh air to console me. Air so clean that it doesn’t carry the wasted oxygen of inmates and guards inside seems rarer than gold these days.

“I mean it.“

Harvey raises his hands in defense. Not that he’d need protection from me – I’ve always proved slower than him soon it came to throwing a punch. “ _Relax,_ Eddie. For fuck's sake, I get it! You’ve become his life force by now.“ I sneer at that. _Life_. Being caged in Arkham doesn’t mean _to_ _live_. 

“Who knows? Maybe he’s become mine too,“ I say. He owes me the answer, because in this moment the elevator opens and a group of heavily armed men in camouflage clothing exits. One might think they are running towards a horde of demons. Perhaps they imagine us exactly like that: of infernal breed. Not of this world when it’s this world alone that has molded us into what we are. Makes it easier to pull the trigger, I guess.

One of them steps out of line, the ever-praised commander for sure. How proud and powerful he must feel, a Caesar who takes action against the barbarians, his dreams ruled by the image of carrying Vercingetorix's severed head home. The modern Pied Piper of Hamelin, come to free the people from the plague whose existence originally stemmed from their very own action.

"Clear the area." His voice is slightly distorted by the helmet pulled over his head, but nevertheless (or perhaps precisely because) it reaches into the farthest, dust-polluted corner. With heart leaping in our throats and irritated muscles to keep still, we wait till the troop scuttles away, losing itself in the distance, guns raised.

Worry chips at my malnourished bones. Not only for Jon – for Jervis too, and Harley. Hell, even for the beast we called Waylon once. I can’t help it. I don’t think I’ve worried this much for other people before in the entirety of my life, except for Jon. I guess when you’re standing near the edge, the people you knew, the bonds you forged, whether of amicable or adversarial nature, are what you hold onto in the end. When _you_ come to an end.

It should have become clear by now at the latest that I have never been a really optimistic person.

An empty elevator goes up and leaves a cavity that's of more interest to us than it should have been usually. With bones aching we climb into the dark cuboid left, perhaps more strongly than ever realizing that our youth has estranged from us over the past few years and that it was time to accept that soon – not today, not tomorrow, a two-figure reprieve of ridicule – it would leave us for good.

The opening is small, a square in the wall cladding, recognizable only by touch, not just by looking at it. Jon never liked to play poker, especially when it came to his only real retreat in this hellhole. In his laboratory he was in his element, bringing back the spark in his eyes; God have mercy on those who dared to take it away from him or, worse, disturb him during his work. Of course, this did not apply to me and a few other chosen ones. Still, Harvey Dent was certainly not one of them. Had Jon been in his right mind, he would have preferred to ram his last syringe into Harvey’s good hip before letting him set foot in his sanctuary. He knew of our history.

I walk the cuboid for the third time before my roughened fingertips flicker over the small, fine bumps. A sigh of relief in mind, I swipe my palm to the right to find the lever on their opposite. It hasn’t been used in a while as its resistance tells me. Good. I pull it down. The mechanism’s hiccup echoes quick and stuck with rust. There we go.

The stink of hay greets us, coupled with the startled whimper of rats that have bit their way through the pipes and set up camp underground. I’ve told Jon a hundred times to watch out for leaks, but well, if this man had listened to me more often in the past we certainly wouldn't be in this situation now.

I climb down, shoes coming up with a rustle. The laboratory has remained in relative order except for the cobwebs that stretch into each corner. Not only the rats have set up camp here.

It’s quiet. No wonder; above us sits reinforced concrete up to two metres thick. The elevator is designed to carry loads the weight and size of a Croc. In case of an explosion caused by a failed gas mixture, the noise would have been more likely to be associated with the occurrence of the cargo rather than suspecting an underground laboratory.

It's by far not the first time I force myself into this place. However, considering these recent months gone by, I could as well have stepped out of one fever dream into another, the naked lightbulb that sways above our heads offering an argillaceous glow to compliment the picture just fine. My gaze flickers from the desk mounted with numerous notes to paper towers stacked on the ground, hay all around like a straggly sort of carpet split into its fake-gold fibres. Next to it, blueprints of Arkham, computers and broken security monitors, a photograph of Batman torn to shreds, and there, at the far end; relief washes over me. Five canisters of Fear Gas wrapped in a blanket of dust and cobwebs. I had dared to hope for two at most. One should be enough to incapacitate the soldiers and secure our escape route. Oh Jon. We might get out of here at last.

Behind me Harvey squeezes his broad shoulders into the room with vehemence. Judging by his generous use of curses, he would have preferred an old-fashioned door. I let him bicker with himself as I walk across the room and watch the memories attached to it gradually pass before my inner eye like a ghost parade. This posed the place of discussions in the flickering semi-darkness of an oil lamp (if it were up to Jonathan Crane, electricity would still be in its nursery twiddling its thumbs till next century), heads bent over maps of Gotham and plans of the Arkham sewage system, card games around 3 am while wardens walked their nightshift route – none but our squabble filling the void.

I never imagined to look back at this time with melancholy. But there are many thoughts that I thought I’d never think, and then I did, and plenty of them too. Humans should delete the word _never_ from their vocabulary once and for all, don't you think?

By default my hands reach out, fingertips smoothing over dust-colored wood and crumpled up notes. Time is a thief. The most successful one to ever exist, mind you. Even Batman had nothing on it. In the end, it caught up with him all the same.

Sudden angry noise behind my back swaps my attention from past to present. I turn around to observe Harvey standing near the bookshelf shaking his hand, his half-face twisted by pain.

I deduce that he scared one of the rats out of its hiding place which promptly repaid him with a bite. A flat smile appears on my face. Some things truly won’t change. I can’t help but scold him.

„Harvey, you shouldn’t challenge the inhabitants of this realm. They’ve been here before us – they’ll be here after we’re gone“

„Sure. Since only rats can survive in this shithole,“ he spats in answer, balling a fist. A gesture so typical to match with his way of solving problems these days and the days beforehand. He turns, his demeanor bustling in an instant.

„So, how many are _you_ packing?“ I raise a brow.

„Me? I thought carrying two of those would be well enough."

His one eye looks at me as if I had lost my mind. The other stares through me. He angrily points his thumb to the ceiling.

"Do you want to give those guys up there the nightmare of their life or just a friendly pat on the head?!“

I take a breath. I’ve turned rusty. His last minute mood swing was predictable given his nature. Still, enraged, I believed with all that had happened we’d be well past that now.

"We had agreed to use the gas as a means of escape, not to attack," I say slowly. I do not need to remind him; he knows the plan. Hell, he was the loudest voice in the room making sure everyone knew their place at given time.

„Dunno. The way those soldiers shoot us like rats might have changed my mind.“ He grabs for a container, hanging from his hand as if he didn’t even realize the weight it holds. "And suddenly _you_ give a shit about rules others set up for you. It's funny, really. But I can't laugh."

Our gazes are interlocked. I don't know for how long, but it feels like eternity drowned by words we can't say but hear anyway. Unpleasant words. Sad words.

With unabated horror then, I watch him begin to unscrew the cab. Am I surprised? Yes. No.

I'm scared.

„Stop! You’re going to get us killed, you idiot!“

„Aren’t we already dead?“ His tone shifts dangerously low. Mocking, almost. „I haven’t been feeling quite lively up to this day, Ed. Did you?“

„Harvey, please!“ I’ve come to a point where I’m not above pleading anymore.

His fingers still, but don't let go of the cap. His pupil’s blown wide.

„It would be nothing but justice."

"Fuck justice!" I say with all the spite I can muster. „Blowing this place up won’t erase what they did.“

"They killed Ivy."

"They'll kill us all if we turn this into a bloodbath _per excellence_!“ I yell. „Croc’s an animal already, but we?! They’ll hunt us down like rabid dogs until we’re put to sleep or back in this godforsaken cage! I’m tired of vengeance, Harvey. I’m tired of this fucked up life!“

He musters me as if he was looking at a stranger, glare cold as ice. It hurts. But I can’t give in this time.

"Is this your final word?“ I look deep into his eyes. Swallow.

„Yes.“

"As you wish."

The canister falls. I see it topple to the ground in slow-motion as you know from movies minus the classical music underlining the suaveness of a moment’s act. I’m too far away to catch it in time, hell, even if I’d leap across the room olympic style it wouldn’t do much but crash right before me to spite my eye.

A jet of gas, amber-colored, emerges from under the canister’s loosened lid and into the room. I open my mouth to say something. Then, in an outdated reflex, I slap my hand in front of it. It's too late anyway. Jonathan didn't install a ventilation system here. Shit. We're trapped.

The entrance. Too far. Won’t make it in time. My head whirls to the left. A mask. There must be one left somewhere. My feet stumble into the desk's direction, fumbling at the drawer there. It’s stuck. I pull with my last remnant of strength and it pops right out of its track. There, between a notepad, a recording device, a syringe unused and loose papers – it’s barely intact. It’s all I could hope for. My fingers close around the cold material.

"You left us for him, didn't you?"

I pause but do not turn around. My widened eyes focus on the mask in hand, now as useless as a bag of sand in the desert. I know that voice. It's Harvey – and it's not Harvey. It's the other one. The one that hates me. 

Turning around is the first step towards suicide, but I have no choice. In the end, I guess it's belated karma that's catching up to me. However, if this is to be the case, my father should arrive here in no time.

I expect him to look as different as he sounds but that is not the case. A meaner streak around the undamaged corner of his mouth perhaps, a look in his eye that lacks the usual fire, having been replaced by something otherworldly cold. Somehow, this makes it even worse. I squint at the canister. Freedom so close I can almost taste it. No, our story is not the bat's; it can't end this way.

"Harvey, we don't have time for this now. We gotta go upstairs.“ My attempt at sounding calm and collected fails miserably. I already feel my veins bloat with chemicals pushing down my airways, eliciting sourness on my tongue and anxiety in my blood. I blink rapidly. The world blurs at the edge of my vision, echos of past filling in the smudges.

"Oh, _now_ you care about time."

My body freezes on command. Insides cramp, it’s getting harder to breathe. The usual procedure. That tone. I know what it means.

"Harvey, please-"

"I'm not Harvey, darling.“ His voice sounds all the same, only the accent changed. The barrel of the revolver is pointed at me and I see my death in its black hole. Maybe it’s always been there. Waiting for me. Beckoning. „I’m the handsome one." 

The pull of the trigger happens so fast I’m not even able to disagree.


	2. Epilog

The Eiffel Tower is less impressive in person than how it is depicted on postcards and in films.

It’s one of many buildings to admire, a great one too, but sketched by human eyes and pulled up into the air by human hands also. There is nothing divine about it. Or perhaps I’m too old and have seen too much in life to praise this work of mankind for what it once stood for. These days it is suitable at best as a backdrop or the expensive tourist trap they’ve made it out to be.

In Arkham, I’ve spent many sleepless nights picturing what it would be like to stand on the observation deck and take a look over the city. In the early eve just as the sun’s planning to vanish and leave a rose-red hue on the horizon which then draws a curtain of pale pink and orange across the landscape. Now that I do it seems rather bland to me or I simply set too high a standard. My own imagination has always painted with richer colours than those that reach the human eye. Still, compared to our cell in Arkham, it’s modern Eden. That’s probably why I’ve sent Selina one of those corny postcards. She hasn’t answered me yet, but I have hope she will soon.

Clutching the rail I bend over the abyss and blink at it, the grille a rusty engraving at the edge of my vision. If I close my eyes, I can pretend that this is the roof of an ordinary skyscraper in Gotham and that I only have to wait for the night to settle to see the Bat symbol shining in the sky. I nearly smell the rancid stench of the exhaust fumes clogging the air even so high above with the droning sound of car horns stuck in traffic echoing in my ears.

It is and will always be strange to think that I will never see the bat again. Just as the fact I'm supposed to have turned my back on Gotham forever. It all feels like a dream that, while it may seem like it represents a reality that actually happened, is revealed to be an illusion substituting the real thing. Why should one do such thing, you might ask. Well, the brain can only bear so much in a moment, an hour, perhaps a year: especially when the adrenaline rushes into your blood and you are confronted with these unspeakable horrors only humankind can serve. Although I should be used to this kind of situation, I also have difficulty distinguishing fact from delusion these days. I can blame the gas for that... but somehow I don't want to. The farther I've moved away from Gotham, the farther I seem to have moved away from myself as well; or, at least, from the person I thought I once was. Whether that's good or bad can only be determined by time.

It's been a month since Harvey turned a gun on me and made his oft-executed threat to put a bullet in my head a bloody scene. You'd think I’d have learned a set of enviously agile reflexes in my roguish career; moves that would have saved me from any harm and knocked the gun out of his hands without so much as breaking a sweat. But I never was a physical guy per se. That’s what the goons were for.

I will not say what happened next is because we can only be so sure of our own perception even when it’s not corrupted by outside drugs and Jon’s fear gas was the outside drug. What I remember next is Harvey who misses his aim though the distance between us is so ridicously short it’s not logically possible. What I remember next is pain sharp as a shark bite waltzing across my shoulder, ripping the fabric and pouring damnfully hot over my skin. It’s been months I had so much as a luke-warm shower which must be why my poor-wired brain immediately goes Oh that’s nice and that’s crazy, isn’t it. Crazy, for a hot shower.

How else could I explain the relief I felt. This big, final emotion that was made to overwhelm me, even beckoned me to.

I give in, eyes closing, waiting for the second shot. It is then that my gaze flitters across the canister dropped, focusing on a symbol I know too well. That damnful pumpkin, a mark of terror, of doom, of pain.

Of Jon. Jon.

What I remember is me, lunging towards Harvey in a mad fit of courage desperation. I see myself crash against him, forehead to his ribcage, listen to the breath knocked out of his lungs. He staggers, an old tree with root rot about to disconnect from earth. My focus returns to the canisters. Once released, it is useless to close the lid again.

How does the fight continue? asks the audience, eager for more action as their mouths are busy chewing one hill of popcorn after the other.

I don’t know. I have no pictures at hand, no lingering bruises to confirm my afterstory. There’s nothing but the blur and my heart beating erratically in my throat. And I close the curtain at that because looking on further in detail is too painful.

Harvey’s act may have been largely motivated by the gas; on the other hand, I can't help but think that deep down he longed for the closure I had denied him years ago. I had left without turning around, warning him or otherwise preparing him for this change. I didn’t think I’d owe him an explanation and I still think I don’t. Hadn’t the bruises been enough for him to put the puzzle pieces together? How I’d hide my phone under the mattress whenever I went out in the night so he wouldn’t track my location and accuse me of crowds I hadn’t met and other rogues with which I’d supposedly conspire against him?

I know it wasn’t actually his fault. It couldn’t be. My Harvey spoke of justice, of setting up rules everyone could follow to establish a system every facet roaming the streets of Gotham would be benefitted by. It was the bad in him that did the rest; the part of his mercy that had been burned out in the past; the brain and the flesh that suffered lasting damage from it.

Jon also had bad in him. He never sought excuses for it like I did for Harvey. He made the necessary split between what we did as villains and what weling did to each other. It wasn’t all clean. But it was real.

I fled the room, alone, the canister against my heaving chest like a newborn, the thrum of my blood like war drums cheering on me squeezing and aching through the short tunnel. The minute I fell into freedom I locked the opening with what little to lock it with, slamming one palm against it in case Harvey tried to follow and shove it open again. None of it happened; there was no attempt at escape made.

With a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach I pressed my ear against the wall. Nothing. No sound, no step. No sign of life. Goosebumps bit down the ridges of my spine.

What happened next some might have called an out of body experience, and rightfully so because it is one.

I can see me. Yes. The shell of a man I've become. The bones peeking through the thin layer of my skin, the sweat on my brow, my chalk-white face frozen with shock. Somewhere above the echo of bullets hitting glass pours into the silence.

Two heartbeats follow till I hear screams behind the wall set in. Screams I’ve never heard before in my life, not like this.

Just as I attempt to reopen the gap, horrified, a long, scarred hand grasps my wrist to pull me back from the scene, stern yet gently. I blink. And blink. And learn to breathe again.

„Do you want to follow his example so badly?“ His tone is not of mocking kind though it could very well be. He always had a knack for taunting my antics. I turn my head to look at Jon, beyond grateful that he’s looking right back at me with clear eyes.

He’s not shaking as badly anymore, the slightest aspiration of color in the remnant of his face. The sun, the fresh air, the walks; freedom does him more good than any pill could have. The mere fact that he’s breathing deems a miracle.

The mild climate of France in mid-july warms our skin. My pulse roars in my ears. I swallow thickly.

"Not today."

I squeeze his hand.

"Not now."

He nods gravely. Relief reflects in the eye that has not been blinded by Croc. It's enough for the both of us.

He leads me away from the railing, down the steps and down the tower. Not for a second does he let go of my hand, his grip not clammy but tight. Not for a moment do I feel the urge to pull it away. This time it is he who carries me, not the other way round. What a blessing it is, to share the load of one another. To me, this is the closest definition of love we’ll ever come to.

Maybe, one day, I will fall asleep, see the truth of what happened back in that lab and wake up without having forgotten it or wanting to. Until then, I'll allow myself to be what they call happy, and do my best to make Jon happy as well. We deserve a little peace these days, settle down even, age with grace and drink tea rather than splatter concrete walls with luminoscent spray paint and brew toxins deep underground.

Despite all the trouble we’ve brought you, the lacerations we caused and the deaths undoubtedly added to our list of regret waiting down there in hell, you’d probably be fine with these new arrangements. Actually, no, I know you would be, because I’m the one with the genius brain. I know things. You did, too.

I know that your fists may have been of steel, but your heart has always been too soft and bruised for this world due to unresolved trauma in your past that made you fly through the night and have every bone in your body shattered and muscle torn. Perhaps, you were even a little grateful for the mask being taken away at last. You could say goodbye. You could die as your own man.

Farewell, Mr. Wayne. We have never been friends. But I hope, at least in death, we can be even.


End file.
